


Covered In The Colors

by orphan_account



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Damian Wayne Feels, Fluff, M/M, Romance, TimDami, TimDamian, Top Tim, Unspoken words, a little smut, tim/dami
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7326352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-Damian's eyes fall upon the curve of Tim's wrist and he doesn't even seem to care that he might get yelled at when he contorts and grabs Drake's wrist, bringing a marker to the skin quickly. </p><p> "What are you doing?" Tim questions.</p><p>"Shut up." Damian's voice is tender, soft and focused. Tim concentrates on the tip of Damian's pen, the way the tip turns and tilts shooting this electricity up through his spine as he realizes that he's Damian's canvas.-</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covered In The Colors

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr featuring art by grorges (link at the bottom). That and listening to Colors by Halsey... this is how you come up with this lol
> 
> I might do more like this with other characters, i'm not sure. Maybe if this gets some positive feedback ;)

The soft scrubbing and scratching of a pencil on paper sounds next to him when he lets out a breath he didn't know he was even holding. The sudden exhale is misinterpreted as a scoff follows from the teen sitting next to Tim. "We get it, Drake. It's hot. Get over it."

Tim raises his eyes from the book in his lap and glances over at Damian who scribbles and doodles away furiously. He has been doing this for hours and Tim can't help but think that maybe Damian is struggling with an artist's block. He's heard of them before, though he doesn't understand it in the slightest. But if they are anything like what he's been taught to believe, then it's a wonder that Damian hasn't exploded already.  _He's close_  Tim thinks, turning back to look at the page he's sure he's been reading now for ten minutes. 

It's hot, Damian is right. Hot enough to bother even Tim, who finds an odd comfort in sweltering heat and unbearable temperatures. Bruce even teases him, telling him how fitting that a boy who loves the summer so much be born right in the middle of it. The heat today is reaching record highs, even for Gotham's intolerably scorching August weather standards. And it has to be the day that the air conditioning inside the manor doesn't work. All the windows wide open, the soft breeze comes through the curtains, trying it's hardest to cool down the two teens who are exhausted of the uncomfortable living standard. 

Tim had assumed that heading for the manor would be the best idea for days like this. When Bruce, who had since moved with himself and the two Robins (albeit, one of the Red variety) into an upscale loft in central downtown Gotham, handed the boys the keys to the Wayne Estate, Tim was relived. But now as he sits, his shirt unbuttoned completely, his pants discarded on the floor next to his sock, shoes, and tie, he thinks that it honestly doesn't make a difference. There was no escaping this kind of heat. The only comfort Tim finds now is the odd serenity he gets from being around Damian when he gets his little creative streaks. Tim gets this feeling when Damian's pens move swiftly across his sketchbook, it's a feeling like home, like he's heartsick for something he doesn't quite understand. Especially now as Damian leans against Tim's back, perhaps unknowingly, but all the same, there's a lingering contact and Tim can't help but revel in it. When Damian first came into his life, Tim found him nothing short of obnoxious and psychotic. However, when Damian grew, Tim experienced this kind of euphoria, like being around him is a great powerful tug on his chest; both a nauseating and exhilarating sensation. 

Tim jumps when the silence is broken, a loud grumble complete with the rustling and crinkling sounds of yet another page being ripped out of Damian's sketchbook. "I can't do this."

Tim cocks an eyebrow upward. "Damian Wayne, defeated by a pencil?"

"A pencil that will find it's way straight into your throat if you keep it up, Drake." Tim smiles at the threat; such words could only mean that despite his artistic struggles, Damian is in a decent mood. 

"Is that so?" He knows that continuing this sort of conversation would only aggravate the younger Robin, but Tim enjoys the idea of that. He likes watching Damian struggle under Tim's constant teasing. 

"I swear to all that you find holy, please stop." Damian folds up, shifting away from Tim much to Tim's displeasure. He sits there, on the edge of the couch, holding his exposed knees to his chest, his chin tilted sideways so that his cheeks lay against his skin, his eyes closed tightly.  _Just like a child_  Tim notes to himself, watching as Damian tries to self sooth the same way he has since he was just a ten year old boy. 

Damian watches through his narrowed eyes, not out of spite or hatred to concoct some evil plan to irritate the older boy, but with a need. He's searching, anything, everything, something to spark his thoughts, spark that small flame that sits just beneath his skin and fingertips; ignite an idea that would satiate his need to create something. His eyes draw over the billowing curtains, the sheer fabric capturing and soaking up the orange and pink sun that spills through the window. The way their shadows dance on the floor. The flickering reflection playing on Drake's face, emphasizing the hollow of his cheeks and the way his adams apple bobs slightly when Tim drinks more of his Gatorade. When he tilts the bottle back, Damian watches the way the blue liquid spills through the older's mouth, trickling down his jaw and neck, and suddenly, it's all Damian  _can_  watch. His teeth reach out, capturing his bottom lip as he bites with this sort of eagerness he was sure he never felt before. Drake doesn't see Damian studying him, and Damian simply just doesn't care anyway. 

Damian sits up, not even listening to the way the couch crinkles at the disturbance as he reaches forward, his thumb picking up the droplet from Tim's skin before bringing his finger back to his own mouth. Sweet and salty all at once. Tim's eyes barely rise from the book Damian has noticed that remained on page 207 for quite some time now, though Damian can't bring himself to say anything about it. "Do I taste good?" Drake lets out, not even making eye contact as Damian flushes a bright red. 

"You had that insufferable sport's drink on you, I was helping it out is all."

"Keep telling yourself that. " Tim's lips curl into a small smile and Damian clicks his tongue, turning his head the other direction, trying his best to ignore Drake, now more than ever. Damian still notices though, when Drake's arm falls out and down towards Damian along the backside of the couch, just how incredible the lighting is on Tim's exposed shoulder as the button-down begins to lose it's shape, slips and twists as Tim shifts uncomfortably. Damian's eyes fall upon the curve of Tim's wrist and he doesn't even seem to care that he might get yelled at when he contorts and grabs Drake's wrist, bringing a marker to the skin quickly. 

The feeling of the cool ink on his forearm shocks him, causing him to jump towards the source of the disturbance, finding that Damian had taken it upon himself to make his skin a sketchbook. "What are you doing?" Tim questions.

"Shut up." Damian's voice is tender, soft and focused. Tim concentrates on the tip of Damian's pen, the way the tip turns and tilts shooting this electricity up through his spine as he realizes that he's Damian's canvas. The way Damian's green eyes fixate on him, the grip he has around Tim's wrist, Tim is sure he will go mad, trying to not let the eroticism of this get to him.  _Damian is just drawing_ Tim thinks to himself. It still doesn't stop the breath tangle in his vocal chords as he feels the tip of the marker draw it's way all the way up to his arm. Tim drops his head back, closing his eyes as he enjoys this all too much.

Damian, with his tongue in between his teeth as he tightens his jaw, never lets his eyes wonder off his newest project for even second. Still, as he makes his way up Drake's forearm, he finds Tim breathing with an air of ecstasy. Seeing the older boy like this causes Damian's heartbeat to quicken, this deep pool of disagreeable nausea spreading through his stomach down to his thighs and up towards his ribs and chest. Testing the waters, he pushes Tim's undone sleeve up his arm more, continuing to draw a random assortment of swirls and shapes that conform to the muscles of Drake's arm. He hears Tim let out a small groan and Damian begins to smile broadly now. 

Abandoning the now mostly covered arm, Damian gets up off the couch and moves quickly before Drake begins to get curious. 

He barely notices when Damian stopped drawing on him. The faint ghost of the marker thrills him more than he could anticipate, but it seems though nothing could compare as the marvelous feeling of a thick substance is brushed along his jawline, down to his neck and to the point of his shoulder, the warmth of a hand pushing his shirt off smoothly. Tim dares to open his eyes, his cheeks turning bright pink when he sees a shirtless Damian straddling his hips distantly, a tube of paint in his mouth as his brow furrows in concentration. He moves to drag the paint brush across Tim's chest, stopping just over his heart and letting the excess blue color drip down his torso. 

Damian meets blue eyes with his own green ones, and he smiles, reaching forward again to spread more pigment behind Tim's ear before he is forced to suddenly stop as Drake snatched the brush out of his hand, speckling paint drops over Damian's face in the process. Damian's mouth hangs open, ready to ask just why Drake had stopped when he seemed to enjoy it so much, but finds the answer to his concern quickly when Tim's lips found his urgently. 

Inhaling sharply, Damian leans in, taking his paint covered fingers and cupping Tim's face before he wraps his hands into his hair, deepening the kiss and grinding his hips downwards into Tim's now apparent arousal. He pulls away, paintbrush still in hand as he drags it down and across Tim's stomach, watching the way his skins twitches, the way his hips buck up for contact. Damian pulls down Tim's boxers slowly with one hand, running the paint along his hipbone and down to the inside of his thighs before he places a few kisses in places Damian knows would drive Tim over the edge quickly. He runs his tongue along the underside of Tim's length, watching as the man under him squirms under him uncontrollably. 

It's messy, desperate and feverish, the way Tim finally kisses Damian back. He's all teeth and exasperated sighs, doing nothing to hide his love for this. His _need_ for this. His motions are frantic, the way he pushes his thumb across Damian's lip before nipping and biting at it again, begging for Damian to give him more.

And he does. Damian, against his usual better judgement, allows Tim to place his hands wherever they wish to go, allowing them to be his undoing. He's throwing his head back, cursing when Tim touches him finally, bringing him to the edge only to bring him back again. His face is flushed, the heat behind his ears and on his cheekbones inadmissible when Tim fills him, rocking slowly at first, bringing the speed up to a rhythm that matches their in-unison breathing patterns. The red and furious marks of his nails on Tim's back, the sweat that dripped down his forehead and onto his neck, the cries he let out when he was close; it was more than Tim could handle. But when Damian's hand had slid from behind Tim's neck, catching the paint that had once been there and accidentally smearing it on himself in the process, when Tim found himself drowning in all that was Damian, devoured by the sweet scent and agonizing screams as Damian begged for release... That is when Tim loses it all, clutching his lover close to him as they shared their orgasm. 

The sun sets, the night pours in and the heat gives them both a break as the moon above paints their huddled bodies in a pale light. Damian traces the smudges of his previous work with his fingers and Tim kisses his temple longingly. Tim wants to say it, to tell Damian just how much of him he's ravaged for his own, how he's managed to engross himself in the entirety of the man that lay next to him. But he doesn't. Not out of fear, not because he thinks Damian wouldn't hear it. No, the way Damian had wrapped himself up in Tim, his leg hooked around the others waist, his head directly against his own, it was clear Damian already knew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the link to the art this was inspired by: http://grorges.tumblr.com/post/146474987566/i-feel-like-lardo-would-paint-on-her-friends-all


End file.
